taken the lead, and they bundle me into the limo, tell me that they hope I had a great time with them and that I have an even greater one with Damien—wink, wink—and then slam the door, effectively blocking the paparazzi and tourists who are determined to get in my face.
I lean back against the soft leather and take deep breaths. Dealing with the paparazzi is part and parcel of dating and marrying a multi-bazillionaire who owns half the world, and I know that. But once the press got hold of the fact that Damien had paid me a million dollars to pose for a nude portrait—and once Damien was indicted for murder—the press went a little nuts. Now it’s a good day if we go out in public with only a small swarm.
I’ve learned to live with it, but I don’t like it. It makes me tense and uncomfortable, and if there was a way to avoid it, I would.
What I hate the most is that I know they will be out in full force for the wedding. Although all of the Stark International security force will be at the house to make sure we don’t have party crashers on the perimeter, the beach itself is public—and I’m certain that it will be crowded with paparazzi with long lenses and lots of determination.
Since I can’t do anything about that except move the wedding inside or to another location altogether, neither of which are options that appeal to me, I have come to terms with the fact that I’m going to have to simply deal with the paparazzi and all the pictures that will surface afterward.
Yay.
That realization was one of the reasons we fired the photographer that we’d hired to do our wedding day portraits. I really didn’t need one more underhanded person trying to snap a picture of someone who is having just a little bit too good a time at the champagne fountain after the wedding.
I frown, remembering that I still have to find a photographer, and it’s already Thursday and the wedding is Saturday.
Shit
. If it weren’t my own wedding, I could take the pictures myself. For that matter, I suppose I could take my Leica to the ceremony . . .
I shake off the ridiculous thought. Honestly, the black camera strap would totally clash with my dress.
Still, I should use this time in the limo to be productive. Maybe call some of the folks on my initial list of maybes and see if they’re booked for the day. But my head is too light from my Manhattan indulgence, and all I want to do is sit back, enjoy the ride, and think about seeing Damien again in just a few minutes.
The fact that I tossed my phone across the bedroom and broke it also puts a crimp in my plan to manage a little work.
Frustrated at being without Damien, and irritated about my own foolish temper, I glance out the window and frown, because this isn’t the way that we usually go home. I am about to hit the button for the intercom when a phone rings, which is odd because there is no permanent phone in the back of the limo, and, as I have just reminded myself, my iPhone is toast.
The ring comes again.
I lean forward, cock my head, and decide the sound is coming from the bar. I get off the leather bench and move carefully in that direction. Another ring, and I narrow the source down to the ice bucket. I pull off the lid, glance down, and find a phone in the otherwise empty container.
With a grin, I answer the call. “Hello?”
“Ms. Fairchild,” he says—his voice is low and enticing and flows over me like warm chocolate.
“Mr. Stark,” I say, unable to hide my amusement. “Funny you were able to call me, since I have no phone.”
“I told you—I will always take care of your needs.”
I smile, feeling warm and satisfied. “Where are you?”
“I’m not with you,” he says. “Other than that, does it matter?”
My mouth curves into a smile. “No, but you’re wrong. You are with me. You’re always with me.”
There is a pause before he answers. “Yes,” he finally says, and I don’t think I have ever heard that simple word spoken with so
I lean back against the soft leather and take deep breaths. Dealing with the paparazzi is part and parcel of dating and marrying a multi-bazillionaire who owns half the world, and I know that. But once the press got hold of the fact that Damien had paid me a million dollars to pose for a nude portrait—and once Damien was indicted for murder—the press went a little nuts. Now it’s a good day if we go out in public with only a small swarm.
I’ve learned to live with it, but I don’t like it. It makes me tense and uncomfortable, and if there was a way to avoid it, I would.
What I hate the most is that I know they will be out in full force for the wedding. Although all of the Stark International security force will be at the house to make sure we don’t have party crashers on the perimeter, the beach itself is public—and I’m certain that it will be crowded with paparazzi with long lenses and lots of determination.
Since I can’t do anything about that except move the wedding inside or to another location altogether, neither of which are options that appeal to me, I have come to terms with the fact that I’m going to have to simply deal with the paparazzi and all the pictures that will surface afterward.
Yay.
That realization was one of the reasons we fired the photographer that we’d hired to do our wedding day portraits. I really didn’t need one more underhanded person trying to snap a picture of someone who is having just a little bit too good a time at the champagne fountain after the wedding.
I frown, remembering that I still have to find a photographer, and it’s already Thursday and the wedding is Saturday.
Shit
. If it weren’t my own wedding, I could take the pictures myself. For that matter, I suppose I could take my Leica to the ceremony . . .
I shake off the ridiculous thought. Honestly, the black camera strap would totally clash with my dress.
Still, I should use this time in the limo to be productive. Maybe call some of the folks on my initial list of maybes and see if they’re booked for the day. But my head is too light from my Manhattan indulgence, and all I want to do is sit back, enjoy the ride, and think about seeing Damien again in just a few minutes.
The fact that I tossed my phone across the bedroom and broke it also puts a crimp in my plan to manage a little work.
Frustrated at being without Damien, and irritated about my own foolish temper, I glance out the window and frown, because this isn’t the way that we usually go home. I am about to hit the button for the intercom when a phone rings, which is odd because there is no permanent phone in the back of the limo, and, as I have just reminded myself, my iPhone is toast.
The ring comes again.
I lean forward, cock my head, and decide the sound is coming from the bar. I get off the leather bench and move carefully in that direction. Another ring, and I narrow the source down to the ice bucket. I pull off the lid, glance down, and find a phone in the otherwise empty container.
With a grin, I answer the call. “Hello?”
“Ms. Fairchild,” he says—his voice is low and enticing and flows over me like warm chocolate.
“Mr. Stark,” I say, unable to hide my amusement. “Funny you were able to call me, since I have no phone.”
“I told you—I will always take care of your needs.”
I smile, feeling warm and satisfied. “Where are you?”
“I’m not with you,” he says. “Other than that, does it matter?”
My mouth curves into a smile. “No, but you’re wrong. You are with me. You’re always with me.”
There is a pause before he answers. “Yes,” he finally says, and I don’t think I have ever heard that simple word spoken with so
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